


Go Nowhere Tonight

by objectlesson



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Drunken Confessions, First Kiss, First Time, Love Confessions, M/M, Midnight Memories era, Mutual Pining, Pining, Roommates, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-12-04 02:00:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11545104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: As always, the easy nonchalance with which he treats the rumorshurts, stabs Harry in the gut, twists the knife. Because itishard for Harry; it’s hard to know people think they should be or are together because hewantsthat. Wants it so fucking badly, and it would be one thing if he could just silently quarantine that part of himself and pine secretly, but instead he’s faced with fictionalized accounts of his and Louis’s nonexistent love life and photoshopped pictures of them being coupley every time he’s on the internet. Itishard, and the fact that it supposedlyisn’tfor Louis functions as proof that it’s unrequited. “It’s gonna be a rude awakening for them,” he starts, gazing into his empty glass, “when we eventually come out but are dating other people. No one likes being half-right.”---Or, the aftermath of a very tense dinner party.





	Go Nowhere Tonight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Glittermint](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glittermint/gifts).



> Dear Glittermint, I hope this is everything you wanted and more! I chose your prompt, "Harry and Louis are still flatmates (because they are platonic dude pal soulmates) and have one of the boys and his new girlfriend over one night. The couple acts cute and gross and in love the whole night, prompting Louis and Harry to snicker and gag and make fun of them. When the they leave, Louis and Harry joke around and imitate an obnoxious couple by calling each other ridiculous pet names and touching and stuff. It's all for laughs until one of them kisses the other, causing more kissing and less laughing," because of the three it was the most challenging and outside of my comfort zone. It was crazy to conceive of a world where they WEREN'T basically married since the X factor. Like wow I have never done a first time canon fic where the first time happens so late in the canon and it was HARD and also REALLY FUN, so I hope you love it!!!
> 
> Title from Ariana Grande's beautiful unrequited love song, Adore.

It’s _too hot_ , and Harry’s _too_ drunk.

Everyone’s sitting around the living room of Harry and Louis’s flat, sharing a bottle of expensive champagne and a 12-pack of cheap lager, because no matter how rich he is or how much of a popstar he becomes, Louis Tomlinson will always prefer and inevitably purchase cheap lager. It’s one of many (too many) things about him that Harry loves in an illogical, boundless sort of way. 

Harry throws back some champagne and wonders if tonight is one of the countless nights he’s destined to end up puking in the sink because he can’t even make it to the toilet. He sincerely hopes not, but right now, it’s feeling sort of 50/50. 

This is the travesty that landed him here: he and Louis are hosting dinner and drinks for the sole purpose of properly meeting Liam’s new and apparently very serious girlfriend, Sophia. Liam has been saying alarmingly intense shit about her for weeks, stuff like, _she’s the one, boys, I’m gonna marry this girl,_ and, _I want to tell her I’m in love, but what if it’s too soon? and, I need you lot to sort of observe us together and see if you think the connection is, like, mutual, or if I’m just head over heels and acting a fool about it_. Harry and Louis have been privately rolling their eyes at this melodrama (Liam said the same shit about Danielle; Harry _remembers_ ), but they're good mates, so Harry offered to cook dinner, Louis offered to “mix drinks” (which resulted in him buying the lager, but at least he did _that_ ), and now here they are, reduced to shooting each other looks across the room, flat lips and raised eyebrows. 

Harry isn't sure _why_ their flat feels so fucking hot, but it _does_ ; he’s been sweating all night, so he finally collapsed on the couch beside Liam to kick off his boots and take off his jumper. He’s sitting shirtless now, and he rarely _ever_ feels exposed shirtless, but he does in this particular moment because…well. There’s no other way to say it, really. Sophia is lovely, she truly is. But the new unit known as Sophia-and-Liam? Sophiam, if you will? _Positively revolting._

It’s been hours— _hours_ —of mortifying behaviour. Cooing and baby talk and rubbing their noses together like puppies or something, dopey smiles and lap-sitting and the pet names _sugarbear_ and _lambykins_. 

_Lambykins?!_ Like…Harry knows straight people are weird, but this is _next-level weird_. What does lambykins even mean? Do they call each other that when they _fuck,_ or is it just a post-dinner, third-drink thing? Harry takes a swig of champagne, shaking his head and scrunching up his face because picturing Sophiam fucking is very, very low on his list of priorities. Somewhere between _root canal without anesthesia_ and _getting bucked off a horse._

He swallows and flicks his eyes over to Louis, who’s sitting on the carpet between the coffee table and the entertainment center, barefoot and loose-limbed and just tipsy enough that he’s giving Liam a hard time about this whole thing, even as he's truly getting to know Sophia, asking her questions about her job and her family and stuff. Louis…Louis is very good at this type of thing; Harry…less so. He’s naturally charming, and he can tell Sophia loves him in a base, easy way already, but he didn’t do anything to earn it, so it feels fake, somehow. He’s gotten sort of moody the more champagne he drinks, quiet and introspective, legs drawn up under him while he tugs at his happy trail and laughs at all of Louis’s jokes because that, at least, is something he’s very good at. But on the inside? He’s suffering. 

He wonders if Louis, too, is suffering, or if he’s just amused. It’s hard to tell with Louis sometimes, and Harry tries not to look at him too closely when he gets drunk because he knows, _he knows_ how intense he gets about it, how much feeling shines in his eyes. Instead, he grimaces at Louis when Sophiam start kissing (right there! where everyone can see!!) and immediately cuts his gaze back to them when they quit long enough to converse. Louis’s mostly stifling his laughter, which doesn’t sound quite like suffering. 

This is probably because Louis isn’t secretly in love with Harry like Harry is secretly in love with Louis. Has been, for close to three years now. _Way too long_ , insanely and mortifyingly long. It’s, like…Harry has to live with it, so he often makes decisions without weighing it heavily as it’s simply an unfortunate fact of his life, but then he ends up in situations like this one: on a motherfucking not-actual-double-date with Sophia and Liam, forced into shared, private, loaded, anti-couple moments with Louis. It sucks. It sucks really badly. He should have thought about this before he offered up their flat, but he didn’t because he couldn’t have possibly anticipated how weird and awkward this whole night was going to be because he wasn’t anticipating this vile, public love-fest. 

Also, if he had refused, Liam would have wanted to know why, and Harry hasn’t told anyone but his sister and Niall and Nick about the Louis thing, in spite of the rest of the band and his mother and _the entire fucking world_ at least _wondering_ if they’re a couple because Harry’s life is a goddamned joke. Liam doesn’t _know_ , so Harry can’t just say, _maybe our flat isn’t the best place for this thing because then it’s like a double-date except not, and the “not” part makes me sad because the thing I want most in the world is to be on a permanent, lifelong date with Lou (yes, I know that’s marriage), and the discrepancy between real life and my pathetic fantasy is fucking me up, Liam_. He can’t. That would have been even _more_ awkward than watching Liam get all sparkly-eyed, thumbing over Sophia’s lips before dipping down and _biting_ them, _right on the couch_ , which is _fucking awkward_. Just…Harry should have said no in the first place.

But Harry didn’t say no, so here he is, nursing his third (fifth? He’s not sure since he’s also been swigging from the bottle,) glass of champagne and thinking about how he deserves a happy ending, he really does. He certainly deserves it more than he deserves to suffer through the saccharine horror of Liam and Sophia relentlessly cooing over each other like rom-com leads in his own goddamned living room. He's a good person. 

They’re snogging now, and Louis turns dramatically to face Harry, clearing his throat and announcing, “Aaaannnnd I’ve been cut off again.” His eyes are sparkling with mirth, and Harry tries to smile back, gaze lingering perhaps a half-second too long. He loves Louis’s eyes, loves the fierce blue of them, certainly loves them more than is healthy and more than he should, but it’s _hot_ , he’s _drunk_ , he’s been in love with his best friend since pissing on him in the fucking X Factor toilets, and he needs _something_ else to focus on besides the miraculous display of heterosexuality happening on his couch. “Gimme some of that champagne, love,” Louis demands, holding out his flute (never mind that he’s been drinking lager from it all night), and Harry messily, clumsily reaches across the table to comply, tipping out what’s left in the bottle. It’s probably mostly his own spit at this point, and the thought of Louis drinking it makes him feel a little dizzy, a little guilty. “This is _hilarious_ ,” Louis mouths at him, those blue, blue eyes crinkled and lovely in the corners. 

“It’s gross,” Harry hisses back, just as Liam and Sophia pull away with a wet smack. 

“Sorry, lads,” Liam says, not sounding very sorry at all or looking away from Sophia’s face. She’s sort of _straddling_ him now, batting her long, mascara-dark lashes, and honestly, _honestly_ , do they not _care_ that Louis and Harry are _right here_ and also both _totally gay?_

“Oh, no need to apologize. Indulge yourself, Payno. Harold and I will just sit here and stare at the walls, s’fine,” Louis says lightly, flicking his fringe.

Harry chews the inside of his cheek, resenting so many things about this entire situation that he’s not even sure he’d be able to count them _sober_. 

Sophia smiles warmly at Harry, never mind her _lips_ are swollen and all the gloss is gone, and asks him, “What about you boys? Single? No girlfriends...or too many to count? I hear One Direction is a “Mambo No. 5” sort of situation, am I right?” her eyes sparkle, and she’s waggling her eyebrows, clearly kidding, but _fuck_ , it still leaves Harry sputtering, choking on a mouthful of champagne as the fizz burns up his nose. 

“Oh, god, you haven’t told her yet?” Louis asks Liam sharply. 

Liam holds his hands up in mock innocence, bristling because he always gets really insulted and defensive when either Harry or Louis suggest he’s anything but an excellent ally. “Hey, I didn’t know if you wanted her to know! I’m not gonna _out_ you guys, that’s _your_ business.” 

“Ohhh, I see,” Sophia nods, swirling the remaining contents of her lager around the bottom of its can and tilting her chin sagely. “The rumors are true. Well. You make a very cute couple, so congrats.” 

The room gets quiet. 

Every time, really, it feels like being shot. Harry turns red, and he spreads his palm over his chest because surely something that hurts this fucking viscerally has to leave a wound, something he can touch, dip his fingers into. “Erm, no,” he says awkwardly, staring into his empty flute and wishing desperately he hadn’t downed as many glasses (not to mention however many swigs straight from the bottle) before this tragic turn of events. 

Louis clears his throat. “ _Actually_ , contrary to popular belief, just because two lads are gay and share a flat doesn’t mean they are, in fact, a couple. Harold and I are just best mates,” he shrugs, saying it easily, and that right there is why Harry drinks and sobs onto Nick’s shoulder at 3 am at least once a week after trying to dance like he doesn’t care about any of this. 

“Oh, god, sorry,” Sophia says, pursing her lips and backtracking. “I didn’t mean...fuck. I wasn’t trying to imply that. I had just…sort of heard things, you know how it is, how industry talk goes. And there are the Larry Stylinson people.” 

Harry masochistically examines Louis as he answers--Louis, whose cheeks are flushed from the heat or from drinking, perhaps, but certainly not from embarrassment. Harry knows what he looks like when he’s embarrassed, and it’s not this. He has stoic, resigned lines framing his mouth, the look of someone who has had to answer the same stupid question time and time again. “Yeah, we have admirers,” he explains, rubbing at his scruff with the back of his hand. “Loads of ‘em...s’wonderful, actually. Like, they’re _wrong,_ but it’s nice to know that if we came out or something, not every fan would abandon the band,” he says logically, before swigging his drink. 

“Still…just sorry. I try not to assume things. Must be hard, having so many people make that assumption on, like, a _global_ scale,” Sophia adds. 

Louis shrugs again. “Nah, not really. I mean, there are worse things in the world than people thinking you shag Harry Styles.” He shoots Harry a look then, an exasperated, _can you believe this?_ face, rolling his eyes. Harry returns it with a watery half-smile, and he’s probably unconvincing but whatever. He’s drunk, and Louis…this is all a _joke_ to him. 

As always, the easy nonchalance with which he treats the rumors _hurts_ , stabs Harry in the gut, twists the knife. Because it _is_ hard for Harry; it’s hard to know people think they should be or are together because he _wants_ that. Wants it so fucking badly, and it would be one thing if he could just silently quarantine that part of himself and pine secretly, but instead he’s faced with fictionalized accounts of his and Louis’s nonexistent love life and photoshopped pictures of them being coupley every time he’s on the internet. It _is_ hard, and the fact that it supposedly _isn’t_ for Louis functions as proof that it’s unrequited. “It’s gonna be a rude awakening for them,” he starts, gazing into his empty glass, “when we eventually come out but are dating other people. No one likes being half-right.” 

“So… have you _ever_?” Sophia asks then, leaning forward into a classic gossip-receiving stance, flicking her hair from one shoulder to another. 

Again, Harry is silenced, taken aback, hot-faced. Louis is laughing. Everything is _bad_ , and this night was a mistake; he’s _certain_ he’s gonna wake up to champagne puke in his sink tomorrow morning, sure of it. 

Liam squeezes Sophia’s thigh and makes a face. “They _have_ , I’ve seen it. Back in the X Factor house, we’d play drinking games, and everyone would sort of kiss each other. They snogged once or twice...wish I had the idea to film it. Could’ve auctioned it off to the Larry Stylinson people and made a fortune.” 

“Oii!” Louis shouts, tossing an empty crisps bag in Liam’s direction, frowning. “Don’t even dream of exploiting our children, Payno! They’re nice girls. Very accepting.” 

Harry hates everything about this conversation. He doesn’t like to remember the few and far between times he and Louis fooled around, clumsy gay teenagers with no one else to kiss, Harry with his heart on his sleeve longing for more, and Louis most likely just having a good time, figuring himself out. The last time Harry tried was on the X Factor tour, one night when they were both drunk in their hotel room, and Louis was so glorious and golden and sweet and funny, and Harry was only sixteen; he couldn’t help it. He had tried to kiss him when they were _alone_ for the first time, and Louis pushed him away, a single palm flat on his chest, eyes suddenly dark, flickering, regretful. _Hey, let's…let’s not do that anymore_ , he had said as if it was something they _did_ regularly, instead of a few isolated mistakes in crowded rooms. He had searched Harry’s face as he said it, trying to find something amid the hurt and confusion, maybe. Then he said, _s’better if we’re just mates, yeah?_

And the very last thing that Harry wanted to do was push the most important person in his life away with the messy excess of his love. So he .just swallowed, shaken his head, and reeled back. _Right, course,_ he had mumbled, like his heart wasn’t breaking. 

And he never kissed Louis again. Only fantasized about it every day since. “I need another entire bottle of champagne,” he says bitterly, slumping more deeply into the couch and pouting. “I don’t like to talk about this, s’weird.”

Liam stretches, and as he does so, Sophia grabs him around his middle, rubbing her face into his chest and making noises, and the whole thing makes Harry want to vomit. Preferably over them and not in the sink but whatever. There’s still half a case of lager on the table, and he’s going to make use of it tonight, probably. “We should actually be heading out,” Liam mumbles, palming into Sophia’s hair and throwing a somewhat suggestive look across the room at Louis. “Plans, you know.” 

Louis’s eyebrows shoot up, and he flattens his lips out. “Oh, I see. Plans. They have _plans,_ Harold.” He nods to Harry, totally, _visibly_ done with the situation, and even in spite of the lingering awkwardness heavy in his gut like a lead weight, Harry grins back, until that grin turns into a snicker. 

There’s an entirely too-long goodbye, hugs and more hugs and a pause between hugs for Sophia to hold one of Harry’s hands in both of hers and apologize profusely to him. “S’okay, s’okay, it happens all the time, don’t worry about it,” he tells her, kissing her cheek on the way out, and she shoots him a sympathetic look of all things before twining her fingers with Liam and leading him out, and Harry sincerely hopes he imagined it. He doesn’t want to be the person so transparent that he’s pitied. 

Once the door is safely shut behind Sophiam, Louis lets out an audible breath and turns to Harry with wide, stunned eyes. 

The briefest moment of loaded silence passes between them before they dissolve into sudden and unexpected _hysterics_.

Harry is so _relieved_ , all the tension and second-hand embarrassment and discomfort and pain draining out of his body and leaving him slack as he buckles against the wall, cackling until he’s weak with it, sliding down until he’s sprawled on the carpet. “That was _terrible_ ,” he chokes out, eyes streaming. “Like…did they _have_ to feed each other??? Did she have to put the prawn right into his mouth??? His hands weren’t occupied or anything,” he snorts, watching Louis drape himself dramatically over the coffee table, face split by so many lovely laugh lines. And Harry…Harry’s glad, at least for this moment. He’s glad Louis is his best mate if he’s not his boyfriend, he’s glad they can share a laugh and fall asleep in the same flat every night, he’s glad he has Louis’s laughter and Louis’s pile of shoes by the door and Louis’s ten thousand kinds of cereal in the cupboard over the stove. It’s not so bad. It’s better than nothing at all. 

“Lambykins… _lambykins!_ ” Louis yelps, shaking. “Can you honestly _believe_.” 

“God,” Harry gasps, hefting himself up unsteadily, room spinning around him so much that he has to collapse back onto the couch lest he topple over. “Oops,” he giggles, head lolling. “They made me have to get drunk. Now I can’t stand.” 

Louis wobbles over to him and ruffles his hair fondly, fingers snagging through the unruly curls. Harry lost his headscarf some time earlier in the night, so it’s just a mess now, tangled and frizzy, but he still wants Louis to touch it, still sort of whimpers and tilts up into the pressure, even as Louis’s hand falls away. “S’fine, babe, I’ll clean up, you just relax. We can watch telly to decompress from that shit show, yeah?” 

Harry makes grabby hands in the air; he doesn’t want Louis to go, he wants him _here_ , pressed up against his side, their legs twined while they argue over which Netflix series to rewatch because they never end up trying anything new. He needs to have a firm, physical reminder of all the things he _does_ get from their friendship, all the concessions he’s allowed. “Noooo, don’t. Leave the mess, I’ll get it in the morning, just…c’mere.” 

Louis sighs, puts his hand on his popped hip, and pretends like it pains him, but he comes over eventually, picking his way across the carpet, which is strewn in empty lager cans. “I didn’t want to do the dishes anyway, if m’honest,” he admits. 

“Why am I not shocked,” Harry grumbles. 

“Cuz you know me so well, lambykins,” Louis jokes, making it to the couch and depositing himself on Harry’s lap, forcefully enough that Harry makes a helpless _oof_ noise as all the air’s forced out of him. “Shmoopy sugar-snack, apple of my eye,” Louis invents on the spot, reaching for Harry’s flushed, sweat-sticky face and smooshing it between his palms. “My crumpet.” 

They both crack up, but Harry’s a little dizzy, a little overwhelmed. Louis sitting on his lap and teasing him with Sophiam-worthy pet names is something he can handle on a regular day; he and Louis are touchy-feely friends off camera, and it's something he’s developed a resilience to from years of exposure, but tonight…tonight feels fragile. Maybe it’s because he’s drunk, maybe it’s because he got interrogated about their relationship status and was forced to remember the last time he kissed Louis in stark, painful detail. Maybe it’s because he’s worn down, exhausted by the charade of platonically cuddling and living with his best friend who he’s also in love with. Maybe Louis looks particularly gorgeous tonight, with his overgrown hair rucked up in the back from having to run his fingers through it so many times in exasperation, eyes so twinkling and blue and _close_ , close enough that Harry can see his favourite little constellation of freckles on Louis’s left cheek. He's not sure, but it feels dangerous when he covers Louis’s hands with his own, hiccuping with laughter as he chokes out, “Princess-doll baby-face.” 

“Hey! You’re the princess here, if we’re talking princesses...don’t forget I know about your secret nail-polish stash, Harold,” Louis teases, shifting on the couch so he’s straddling Harry's thighs, and Harry would think of a witty retort for that if his brain wasn’t suddenly flat-lining in a haze of static. Louis is solid and radiant, and he shouldn’t…he should _not_ feel so _right_ sitting there if he doesn’t love Harry back. It’s just not fair. 

“You’re heavy,” Harry manages to get out, struggling helplessly under Louis for a second before stopping _immediately_ because friction is a terrible idea right now. Plus, Louis just bears down harder when he struggles, giggling and giving Harry his full weight. 

“Not as heavy as you, lambykins,” Louis snaps back, cocking his head mischievously. Harry wants to tell him that the point is moot because, like, Harry isn’t _crushing Louis_ right this very second, but he can’t get words out, they’re stuck in his throat, hands limp on either side of their bodies because he can’t think of any place to put them that isn’t the flat, strong plane of Louis’s quadriceps in his trackies. “I’m so offended by the amount of times I’ve had to see Liam’s _tongue_ tonight. Wrestling with another tongue. Like, what did I do to deserve such cruel cosmic punishment?” 

“Ughhh! It was so bad! And you know I _love_ hanging out with couples, but that was, like…just terrible. Too much and, like…just impolite. Ugh,” Harry complains, trying so hard not to look at Louis’s smirking mouth, trying so hard not to get even hotter and sweatier than he already is, but it’s fucking impossible with this furnace of a human sitting on him, looking down at him, _unreal,_ he’s so sexy. It’s _not fair_. 

“They _snogged_ , on our _couch_ ,” Louis reminds him, dipping down and putting his face in Harry’s hair, which, _again_ , would be tolerable on any other night but _not_ tonight, not when Harry’s already chubbed up in his jeans and feels totally defenseless. “Oh, Liam! You’re so funny and charming, I can overlook the fact that you don’t understand basic geography and pretended to have a kidney problem for two years to avoid drinking with your mates because you’re a royal square! Oh, Liam!” Louis mocks in a high-pitched voice, squirming on Harry’s lap, and fuck, _fuck_ —no—Harry resents this entire situation, but he especially resents being likened to _Liam_. 

“ _Heyyyy,_ why do I have to be Liam? Who has the secret nail-polish stash? I wanna be Sophia, she’s pretty,” he argues, trying in vain to shove Louis off. It’s a really bad idea because it requires _touching_ Louis, putting his palms on his shoulders and feeling his skin burning up through his white tee-shirt. _Not fair, not fair_ , he thinks. _You can’t sit on me and tease me like this if it’s all a joke to you. If you don’t want me._

“Well, _I’m_ not gonna be Liam,” Louis says matter-of-factly, flicking his fringe out of his eyes before grabbing Harry’s waist, which is a sure-fire way to get something in their living room broken because Harry absolutely _flails_ when he’s getting tickled. “Liam, who didn't even fucking tell the new love of his life that two of his best mates are _gay_ , what a total sod,” he says, digging his thumbs into Harry’s ribcage, and Harry yelps, kicking wildly, trying to throw Louis off with no success. Louis’s pinning him efficiently with his weight centered in Harry’s lap, pressing him into the couch, and the whole _thing_ is fucking with Harry’s head, his stomach a tangle of knots and heat and champagne and confusion. 

Harry reaches for his hair and makes a fist in it; it’s his only defense, his last-ditch effort to save himself from the inevitable embarrassment of Louis figuring out he’s getting a fucking hard-on from this. Louis swats him away easily, though, yelping indignantly before he grabs Harry’s hair instead, twisting as he warns, “Lambykins…,” in a sharp, reprimanding tone. And he’s joking, obviously, there’s no universe in which this is not a joke, and absolutely _none_ of this should be fucking _hot,_ but Harry is weak tonight, and Louis is _everything_ , and Louis has a fist in his hair. He whimpers, which is an awful idea, so as fast as he can, he disguises that whimper by bursting into nervous, hysterical laughter. 

Louis’s grip loosens minimally, and then he’s laughing, too, wheezing with it, sagging against Harry so their brows slide together, and his breath comes out in a hot burst over Harry’s mouth, boozy and perfect, cheap lager and comfort and home and every single thing Harry has yearned for ever since he _met_ Louis and got thrown into a band with him, like fate wanted his heart to forever ache. He shudders, laughter dying in his throat, and suddenly, everything feels quiet and soft. Under water. The room is so _hot_ , and Harry wonders if he’s dreaming because Louis is still so _close_ , and Harry’s drunk, drunk on champagne, drunk on Louis. 

Harry blinks slowly, tongue flicking out to wet his lips, and Louis’s breath catches. “Hmm,” he says, as the hand he has resting idly on Harry’s shoulder tightens incrementally, making the touch intentional, deliberate. “You’re drunk, love,” he says gently, his voice a soft scraping thing. The way his eyes darken makes him almost seem sad, and Harry doesn’t want that, doesn’t want Louis to be sad, ever. 

“M’not that drunk,” he lies, voice too soft and tender for how close Louis is to his face, but he doesn’t know how to sharpen it. He doesn’t know what’s going on; Louis calls him _love_ every day, it’s just something he does because you can take the lad out of Donny, but you can’t take Donny out of the lad. But this-- _this_ sounds different, it sounds like _love_ , like _in love_ , like the love Harry has carried and struggled with for three years. It puzzles him, makes something inside him clench, so he furrows his brow where it’s pressed to Louis’s and thinks of asking, _What? What’s happening, Lou?_

Before he can get it out, though, something hard flashes over Louis’s face, and he thumbs messily over Harry’s lower lip, pulling away. “So, think our darling Liam and Sophia are going to last? I think she’s too good for him, personally.” 

It’s whiplash, and Harry never recovers well from that. He frowns, trying to remember who Liam and Sophia even are. “I think…,” he starts, recalling the swapped spit that happened mere _inches_ from where he’s currently sitting, slumped under Louis’s weight. “ _I_ think the infatuation seems mutual. Which, like…good for them, I guess,” he mumbles, trying not to sound bitter. “Suppose they’d be cute if they weren’t so gross. But they _were_. Gross, I mean.” 

Louis giggles, shifting his weight and getting all up in Harry’s space again. Harry would try to squirm away, but the couch has him trapped, so he just has to deal with it. “Yeah, between the pet names and the prawns and the out-and-out _snogging_ ,” Louis starts, getting that wicked and somewhat terrifying gleam in his eye before cooing, “Oh, cupcake frosting, you’re soooo handsome, who cares that we’re in the middle of a conversation with our gracious hosts, I’m gonna lay a fat wet one on you _right now_ ,” and then, because Louis is cruel and must have _no idea_ , he leans in, close and closer, before he lands a smacking kiss on Harry’s cheek. 

There’s the scrape of his stubble and the dampness of spit, and once more, Harry is reduced to helpless panicked giggles.

Louis must think that makes this _okay_ , so he kisses Harry _again_ , this time on the shocked arch of his eyebrow. Then there’s another, on his temple, and another, on his other cheek. Each of them is wetter, louder, and more absurd than the last, but they’re kisses from Louis all the same, and Harry can only handle so much of that before he comes apart. His giggles turn into hysterics, and his hysterics turn into tears, and then everything is saltiness and wheezing and an aching stomach, Louis all around him, Louis pressing kiss after kiss, to his nose, to his forehead, to his chin. 

To his lips. 

The tears, the laughter, they both stop. Everything stops. There’s nothing in the world save for Louis’s soft mouth pushing up against Harry’s, his hair delicately tickling against Harry's cheek, his thighs squeezing Harry too tightly around his middle. There’s nothing but this ending of the world, right here. 

Harry kisses back without even realizing he’s doing it. He tilts up into the burn of Louis’s breath, seeking more, needing more, even if this doesn't mean anything, even if it never happens again, even if Louis gets mad and freaks out or something. It’s just… Louis’s kissing him, and it’s probably some crack in the fiber of the universe that’s allowing such a thing to happen, but Harry will take it. 

Louis gasps involuntarily, his hand moves to cup Harry’s cheek, and it isn’t a joke anymore; he’s not playing. He’s kissing Harry, everything soft and experimental and tender, their lips slick and wet, their noses bumping together, their hearts thundering in time. He thumbs over Harry’s cheekbone, up to the tail of his fluttering eyelid, into his hair. Harry’s half-sure he’s dead and half-sure Louis’s about to pull back, burst into laughter, and pretend this never happened, but his heart doesn’t stop, Louis doesn’t stop. He kisses Harry softly and seriously, palm spread over the terrible burn of his flush. 

Harry’s the one who deepens it, flicking his tongue out helplessly because he can smell Louis’s breath, but he needs to taste it, too, has somehow survived three years without this and can’t survive another second. Louis fucking _groans_ as he does it, grip tightening around Harry’s jaw and pulling him close, their tongues swirling together hot and filthy, and Harry can’t pretend this isn’t a real, honest-to-god snog now; he and Louis are _snogging_. 

Louis splays his thighs wider over Harry’s and grinds down into his lap, the hottest, headiest thing, and if Harry was planning on stopping him to ask what the fuck is going on, he’s not anymore. He doesn’t care; he’s sucking Louis’s tongue, Louis’s biting his lips, and then they’re grappling for each other, Louis’s hands all over his bare chest and his own hands pushing up under Louis’s tee-shirt, both of them tumbling to their sides, spreading out all over the couch, slotting together so perfectly that Harry has the wild thought, _see, you’ve finally realized we’re meant to be like this, we fit, we fit._

It’s rough kissing, but it’s tender-rough, and Harry kind of hopes a beam of lightning touches down in their flat right now and kills him so he can die here, with Louis’s lager/champagne-spit on his chin, his perfect body solid and hot and grinding him into the back of their couch like he isn’t wondering, like he isn’t afraid. Harry holds onto his biceps and lets himself be kissed apart, thumbs digging into the flicker of muscle, dizzy and drunk and maybe dreaming, maybe dead. He doesn’t care, as long as Louis keeps touching him, keeps smelling like cigarette smoke and cologne and rain and laundry and spice. 

At some point, Louis tilts him back with a hand in his hair and mouths sloppily down his neck, licking sweat, sucking over his pulse before biting down hard. Harry gasps and stills, humping Louis’s leg shamelessly, so far past wondering if he seems pathetic or desperate, or if this is a one-off accident that’s gonna ruin their friendship or something. He’s stupid with champagne, with wishes coming at least partially true. “Fuck,” Louis mumbles, teeth scraping over Harry’s Adam’s apple, skating up to the line of his law. “Harry,” he says, and the way he _says_ it, so low and hoarse, sends a pang of agonized want down to the pit of Harry’s gut. “Harry…can I leave a mark? Is that okay?” he asks. 

Harry actually starts crying, a wrecked sound snagging up out of his throat, something between a sob and a curse. “Yes, please,” he manages to get out, tilting his head to give Louis better access to his neck. “You can…you can have anything. You don’t even need to ask.” 

Louis laughs, breath huffing out over Harry’s shoulder, where his skin is bitten and damp with sweat, with saliva. “You shouldn’t say that, love,” he groans, before pressing a lingering kiss to the hinge of Harry’s jaw. “You don’t know what I’d take.” 

“Doesn’t matter,” Harry breathes, shivering. “I’d give it to you. S’already yours.” And maybe he shouldn’t be saying so much, maybe he shouldn’t be telling the truth. But it’s hard to remember that when he’s drunk and finally, finally, _finally_ kissing the boy that he loves. 

Louis makes a sound, choked and trembling, before he pulls back to look down at Harry with wet blue eyes. He’s backlit hazily with a ring of light, like a fucking halo, and he’s so astoundingly real and beautiful and _kissed_ that Harry has to bite back a sound. “You can’t…you can’t just say things like that,” he says then, hand curving around Harry’s neck, thumbing into the divot where his blood is thundering. “Not if you don’t mean them.” 

Harry blinks, trying to recall exactly what he said. It’s difficult because he’s hard and his head is spinning and he was kissing Louis but he’s not anymore and that scares him because what if—what if it never happens again? Whatever he said, he meant it, so he tells Louis so, licking his lips as he says, “I mean everything with you.” 

Louis’s whole face wobbles like it does when he’s about to cry, and he looks away. “You’re drunk,” he says again, palming up Harry’s chest, razing his nails over his ribs, to his sternum. “And we…fuck. We should probably stop.” 

_No_. No, they can’t--Harry can’t _stop_ , not now, not when Louis looks all sad and shaky and uncertain so suddenly, all because he thinks Harry doesn’t _mean_ it, whatever it is. All because he thinks Harry is _drunk_. “I’m not,” Harry blurts, even though he is. He grabs Louis’s wrist, flattening his hand out over the frantic thud of his own heart, making him see, making him _feel_ what he does to him. “Don’t want to stop, please. Want you to mark me up. Wanna kiss you, Lou, just…please,” he begs, arching up off the couch, into the pressure of Louis’s body perched over his hips. 

Louis looks like he’s in pain, pretty mouth falling open around a cut-off groan before he’s ducking down and getting his teeth into Harry again, three bites in rapid succession, the swell of his pectoral, his collarbone, and then back down to his nipple, tongue swirling. Harry cries out, arching into the pressure, vision whiting out. “Stop...stop saying stuff like that, Harry, Christ,” Louis hisses, voice trapped against Harry’s sweat-sticky skin. “You have…you have no fucking idea what it does to me.” 

_What it does to me_. Harry shivers, stunned and aching and so far beyond remembering why he has lived three years without telling Louis that every day, _every day_ , he breaks his heart. Close but not close enough, his best friend but not his boyfriend, his _partner_. His everything else. He cards a hand up through the back of Louis’s hair, making a fist to anchor himself, confessing, “No, you don’t get to _do that_ , you don’t get to act…to act like it’s me who does things, who confuses you or fucks with you or, like…god, Louis, for _years,_ it’s been like this, and it’s just...you’re the one who treats it like a joke. Like, even tonight. Just a joke. So you don’t get to act like that when I’ve been _living like this._ ” And it comes out in such a terrible, messy rush that he isn’t sure there’s a single seed of clarity to pick out among the dust and ruin, but Louis goes very, very still, and that’s at least something. 

He’s pressed close enough that Harry can feel his pulse pick up under his own thumb as his palm spreads to touch, always seeking skin. Then he pulls back to look at Harry, eyes watery and unfocused and always the most heartbreaking shade of blue. “Living like what?” he asks quietly, brows knit, critical. 

And Harry’s drunk, sure, but he _knows_ Louis. Knows him inside and out, knows his before-sleep habits, his favourite brand of aftershave, and which rom-coms make him cry. He knows what every emotion on Louis’s face looks like, anxiety or annoyance or, in this case, _hope._ Disbelief laced with hope, right there in that narrow sea of blue surrounding the blown-wide black of his pupil. There, in that pupil, Harry can see himself, his own flushed and wide-eyed reflection. 

“This,” he answers gently, gesturing at the space between them, tense and electric but stupidly, unfairly empty. “Like this.” 

And because Harry and Louis have never needed to say much in order to understand each other, Louis’s face softens, his mouth parts. There’s more hope, more disbelief, and Harry’s trying to pull him down by his hair again because, _fuck,_ he wants to kiss that hope right into certainty, can’t tear his eyes from the tremble of Louis’s mouth. _Let me show you_ , he thinks in a haze. 

Louis resists the pressure and swallows. “Hazza,” he whispers, voice shaky, new. Like something just born. “If this is a joke…,” then he shakes his head, eyes fluttering closed as he spills in a rush, “I love you. I _love you_...love you in every way someone can love someone else, and I have for years, too, and… _fuck_ , Harry—,” he cuts himself off because Harry’s eyes are leaking down his cheeks, he can feel them. It’s as if the tremendous drop in his stomach has triggered three years’ worth of tears shed over this boy, and they're all coming _back_ now, rushing hot and wet and spilling over as he blinks. Louis thumbs them away, cursing before he murmurs, “I just…I want to be with you and have you and _fuck_ you, not just once or because it’s convenient but, like, always and forever and all that, so if you’re going to _drunkenly_ tell me that I can have whatever I want without asking, you need to know what it is I want, yeah? Like. All of it.” 

Harry opens his mouth, and a sob comes out, ripped and ugly, but it doesn’t even matter because Louis is bending to lick his tears up, the softest, slickest thing. “Louis, Lou,” he prays, crushing Louis against his chest and burying his face in his hair, inhaling the familiar smoke and dirty-hair smell of him, “Please. You can have…when I _said_ it was already yours, that’s what I meant, like, s’been yours forever. Since we met. I’ve never done anything but love you,” he chokes out, palming over Louis’s scapulae, down his back, anything he can reach and hold. 

Louis is laughing again, like earlier tonight, but it’s more broken, frantic, full of air. He’s rocking in Harry’s arms, and they’re touching each other so messily and freely that they end up falling off the couch accidentally, the glass-top coffee table making a dreadful sound as they crash into it, rolling across the carpet, a mess of mouths and nails and gasps. “Are you _kidding_ me? How fucking _stupid_ have we been?” Louis wonders at some point, kissing the bloodless fingerprints he left in Harry’s shoulders, his teeth the most delicious white flash through the chaos of his hair as he smiles and bites and smiles. 

“I wasn’t stupid…you were confusing,” Harry pants, spread out on his back, keening as Louis pins a wrist above his head and licks a searing trail into his underarm hair to suck the sweat out of it, leaving the most raw and nervy feeling in his wake. “You always seemed so fucking nonchalant and, like, _unaffected_ when it came up,” Harry sighs, and Louis’s smile breaks open into a harsh laugh. 

“Well, I was lying...every time, I lied. I was devastated,” he explains, and when he kisses Harry, he tastes musky, Harry can taste his own sweat on his tongue. “Like, tonight? You were so fucking pouty when Sophia asked about us, and I thought…I always thought it upset you, when people talked about us like that.” 

“No, never...it upset me that they were _wrong_ because I’m fucking in love with you, always have been,” Harry assures him, arching up off the floor to grind into Louis’s solidity, seeking heat, pressure, absolution. “But you always laughed it off. You even told me, that one time, on tour, n’the hotel...you stopped me and told me we were better off as mates. Broke m’fucking heart.” 

“Oh, love...Harry,” Louis murmurs, and yes, the _love_ is different now, or maybe it always has been, and Harry’s just now hearing it, the soft, grave weight to Louis’s voice as it cradles that solitary word. “I only said that because I thought I had to protect myself…thought it was just a snog for you when, for me, it was fucking everything, _you_ were fucking everything. Knew already you were the love of my fucking life, but you were sixteen and the world’s biggest flirt, and, like… every single person in the universe wanted you. Still wants you. I knew if we had a friends-with-benefits thing, it would…I dunno. It would kill me,” he confesses between kisses. 

They’re soft and lingering and totally overwhelming, these heavy presses of his lips to the parts of Harry’s body he didn’t even remember existed before this, like the inside of his elbow where his pulse is thrumming, the ditches between every rib, the hollow beneath his clavicle. Louis is mapping out his body so carefully, and the deliberate _intensity_ of it all is sobering Harry up, bringing him closer to the full clarity that _this is happening._ He and Louis, snogging on their living room floor, giggling and touching and confessing like teenagers. It’s insane, and it’s all he’s ever wanted. 

Harry’s breath catches on a ragged inhale as he admits, “Was never just a snog for me,” and colours under Louis’s lips, red from the memory, from the scrape of stubble against skin.

Louis comes up for air, a set of matching spots of colour on his cheeks above a grin that’s a world-ending sort of thing. “Well, I didn’t know that then. I was dumb and insecure and thought I wasn’t good enough for you, that maybe you had some kind of crush on me or that you thought I was fit, maybe, but that you’d grow out of it, move on to someone better,” he shrugs, as if this is something he’s already come to peace with, already ached over. 

It makes Harry’s chest clench to imagine Louis feeling inadequate, ever, in any way, and his voice comes out so raw it’s bleeding as he whispers, “Fuck, Lou. M’so sorry...I never… you were always good enough. You’re better than good enough, you’re the best thing, there’s nothing... _no_ one better,” he babbles, hands all over Louis’s back, under his shirt, trying to cover as much of him as possible, rub the past away. 

“I sincerely hope you feel that way because m’never fucking leaving. Gonna move in with you, gonna get meself a room in your flat,” he teases, and _fuck_ , Harry loves him, loves him so much it’s splitting him open, loves him so much it _stings_. 

“Love you,” he says, all of it just spilling out of him, into Louis’s mouth as he holds Harry down and kisses him, so hard and deep that Harry forgets to breathe. They pull apart in a slick, and Harry groans, “I want…need you inside me. Want you to take me to my room and fuck me.” 

Louis shudders visibly, eyes getting dark. “I… _fuck_. In your room? You never have sex in your room...always bring your pulls to the guest room,” Louis muses, and there’s a sort of bitterness in his voice as it drags hoarsely over the word _pulls_. It’s familiar, and Harry wonders why he never pressed on that, never tried to figure out why Louis was so dismissive or uncomfortable about this subject before. He assumed it was a lifestyle difference, that Harry could have casual sex whereas Louis wasn't interested, that Louis was faintly judgmental of Harry’s parties and Harry’s party friends. 

“Were you…were you _jealous_? All this time?” he asks, and it comes out breathy with wonder. 

Louis rolls his eyes, mouth sharp and smirking and kissable. “Are you serious? _Paralyzingly_ jealous. Like…god. I don’t even want to talk about it,” he bends to kiss the corner of Harry’s mouth, tongue flicking over it hot and wet. “I feel like I’ve spent half my life stoned-crying over you. Just fyi.” 

Harry snorts. “S’mutual,” he breathes against the shell of Louis’s ear, hands tangled in his hair. “You know…you know why I never brought pulls to my room?” 

“Why?” Louis asks, though he seems distracted, fingers working desperately to get under the tight waistband of Harry’s jeans, shoving down the back of them, knuckles burning against the carpet. 

“Because you get my room. It’s where we’d stay up late watching VH1 countdowns, where you’d sleep with me when m’sick with flu, where you’d bring me tea when m’hungover and can’t move…s’like, where I imagined, like, _us_. If I ever got to wake up or fall asleep with you, it would be there, so I didn’t want anyone else in that space, felt wrong,” he mumbles, and Louis’s grip on his lower back gets tighter and tighter, the space where his face is buried in the junction of Harry’s neck and shoulder, damper and hotter. Harry’s not sure if he’s crying, but it smells like salt. “Sorry if that’s, like…a lot,” he whispers. 

Louis opens his mouth over Harry’s throat and sucks, a small, broken sound falling out of him and getting trapped against the slick of Harry’s skin. “No, s’perfect,” he murmurs then, pulling away with a smack. “You’ll let me fuck you there? Let me...god,” he stops, and Harry _feels_ the inhalation, how sharp and moved it is. “I want you so fucking badly, Harry, I can’t think.” 

“Take me, take me, please,” Harry begs, trying to sit up but collapsing under Louis again, his whole body so overwhelmed and shivery that he's weak with it. “I don’t wanna wait anymore.” 

Louis hauls himself into a sitting position, all trembling hands and blown pupils. “Yeah, okay,” he says, palming down Harry’s bare chest, eyes flickering from one place to another with unfocused hunger. “You’re so fucking hard to move away from. M’like…scared that if we move or stop, I’ll wake up.” He swallows thickly, thumbing over one of Harry’s nipples so that it draws up into a tight point. “Coz I have dreams like this, y’know. Where I have you. But I always wake up.” 

Harry shakes his head, hair strewn all over the carpet and getting even more tangled in the back as he grinds it into the floor. “You won’t wake up, m’here, I’ll be here forever because there are, like….no universes where I don’t want you,” he explains, eyes stinging, throat tight. He's mostly sober now, the unfathomable weight and madness of the whole night bearing down on him, catching his breath. 

Louis smiles, even as his eyes are wet, so crinkled up at the side that they’re nothing but shimmering slits. “Okay,” he says, voice wobbling with the rest of him as he stands, offering a hand to Harry as soon as he’s up. “Guess I’ll risk it, then. C’mere.” 

He pulls Harry to his feet, and they sway together, unsteady, stumbling. It takes _forever_ to get upstairs to Harry’s bedroom, but he doesn’t _care_ ; he’s kissing Louis, Louis’s kissing him, up against the wall in the kitchen and braced in the door frame and every few feet in the hallway because they can’t _stop_. Every surface seems new and full of promise, and Harry keeps thinking, _this is real, this is happening, he’s here, he loves me_. It’s so _much_ , an endless roller coaster of plummeting stomachs and racing hearts. Louis kisses like a hurricane, pushing Harry into every solid wall between here and his room, just to get his hands on his body, his tongue in his mouth. “Love your lips, love the way you smell, love your stupid bony knees and your smile, love you,” he says breathlessly, finally getting Harry through the door, manhandling him onto his unmade bed. “Don’t even know where to start.” 

“Start by fucking me,” Harry reminds him, unbuttoning his jeans and wiggling out of them, struggling to get them over his thighs. “Just want you inside…Louis, fuck, _please_ , think about it all the time,” he groans, giving up and leaving his jeans in a black tangle around his thighs, rolling over to show Louis his arse, snapping the elastic of his pants against his side. “S’yours.” 

“Fuck, Harry, Jesus,” Louis breathes, voice cracking as he crawls onto the bed, bracketing Harry’s hips with his knees, dragging his wet mouth over the top-most knob of his spine. “You’ve thought about it? Thought about me fucking you, filling you up?”

“ _God_ , yes, so much,” Harry gasps, arching his back and pushing his arse up to grind against Louis, rub against the heat of his erection, hard and obscene as it tents the front of his trackies. “Finger myself thinking about your cock. Hundreds of times...come sucking on my fingers, pretending they’re you, just…fuck, _please_ ,” he babbles, breath catching as Louis bites him, groaning into the mouthful of flesh. 

“Jesus _Christ_ , Harry, m’gonna come before I even get in you, m’already so close,” Louis moans, making a fist in Harry’s hair and tugging to flip him over. Harry goes easily, already hazy vision whiting out into stars as Louis kisses him, blindingly deep, claiming. “Need you so badly,” Louis murmurs, words sounding filthy caught in the wet, messy slide of their lips. “Can’t even stand it.” 

“Come on my face, in my mouth,” Harry begs, humping Louis’s thigh as he pushes it between his legs, mouth falling open as he feels him out, how wet his briefs are from his leaking cock. “Just need you _in_ me.” 

“Fuck,” Louis whimpers, dipping back down to bite Harry’s mouth. “How are you even real, how are you mine—,” he cuts himself off, voice dying in his throat because Harry’s fucking _impatient_ ; he’s waited three years to get his hand on Louis’s cock, and he can feel it against his stomach through maddening layers of fabric, and it’s not _enough_ , he wants and he wants, he _needs_. So he reaches between the shift of their bodies to cup Louis through his trackies, heart stopping as he touches him for the first time. 

“Oh, my god,” he breathes, just squeezing, moving trembling fingers up the length, stunned by the heat of him bleeding through. All this time, looking but not touching, and _now_ , now. _Finally_. He’s very nearly drooling when he says, “Get it out, please. Lemme look, wanna see, _god_ , want it so badly.” 

“Fuck, okay,” Louis wheezes, canting off the bed just enough to roll his trackies down his hips. He frees his cock, and it bobs to his stomach, wet at the tip and curved to the right and golden-red and _hard_ , so fucking hard that it looks like it hurts. Harry makes a broken sound, face crumpling. “S’not as big as yours, but we can’t all be perfect specimens of manhood, can we,” Louis jokes, but his hand is shaking as he curls it around his shaft, stroking himself, dabbing his index finger into the bead of precum at the tip. “Everything you imagined?” he asks under his breath. 

Harry chokes on his own spit, coughing before reaching out in slow motion, smearing his thumb into Louis's slick, stomach in knots. “Better. Better than anything,” he sighs, wrapping his hand around it as Louis’s hand falls away, back arching and breath coming out in a strangled hiss. 

“God, _god_ , Harry, your hands, fuck,” he gasps, fucking into the tight ring of Harry’s fist. “You’re so fucking— _oh_ ,” he chokes out, cock twitching, so hot and thick and perfect in Harry’s hand that Harry can’t _think_ , he can’t _breathe_ , can’t even remember how to give a proper handjob because he wants to just self-indulgently touch Louis until he memorizes every fucking thing about him. 

“Louis,” he whispers, because it’s the only word left that he can remember, that he can get out of his mouth. “You’re so beautiful, so fit, _god_ ,” he slurs before he catches Louis’s mouth, and then they’re kissing again, a mess of teeth and tongues and cut-off groans, the filthy slide of Louis’s cock in his palm the only thing that Harry can make out amid the overwhelm. 

They kiss and kiss, grinding and humping, Harry jerking Louis off clumsily and gracelessly, wrist aching because there’s no good angle when you want someone so badly that you’ve even forgotten how to breathe. At some point, Louis curses and pulls away from Harry with a wet smack. Then he’s rolling him onto his back with one fist in his hair, the other wrapped around his own cock as he throws a leg over Harry’s chest to straddle him. And there, as he holds Harry down, pressing him hard into his own sheets, Louis starts to wank furiously, cock inches away from Harry’s face. 

“God, please, _please_ , Lou, give it to me,” he babbles, gasping as the first hot ribbon lands on his cheek, stunning and burning and fucking _absolving_. Harry sobs, opening his mouth and craning his neck up off the bed to catch the rest on his tongue; he's _so_ fucking hungry for it. Louis lets out the most gorgeous breathy moan and finishes, eyes locked on Harry and his mouth, come painted on his lips and searing down his throat as he swallows what landed there. 

Louis is bitter and saltier than Harry is, tastes so strong that it makes him writhe on the bed, kicking the air uselessly. He needs it everywhere, wants it in his hair and in his arse and smeared over his heart. He wants to smell like Louis, wants to swallow him until his throat burns. He rubs in the come on his face without even thinking about it, and Louis makes a sobbing sound, pulling his hand away so that he can kiss him. “God, Haz, so good,” he praises, licking him clean, biting his lips before he sucks them into his mouth fiercely. “You ruin me, m’so fucking in love with you.” 

Harry is in a daze, hands wandering all over Louis’s body, his shoulders and his chest and the firm, toned swell of his stomach. He blinks, eyes stinging as he distantly wonders when Louis got his shirt off, how that happened at all. “Still gonna fuck me? Can you get hard again?” he asks, so turned on he feels drunk with it, erection straining almost painfully in his briefs. 

Louis laughs, just throws his head back and loses it, the force of his cackling making them both shake where they’re tangled together. It’s the best, most unbelievable sound, and Harry smiles, slow and stupid. “I can get hard again, love, just gimme a minute,” Louis says fondly, wiggling his way down the bed so he can slide off it, sinking between Harry’s loosely splayed knees. “Lemme suck you off first, yeah? Been dying… _dying to_ , Harry.” His voice cracks over Harry’s name, and Harry’s heart subsequently clenches, like a fist trying desperately to hold on to something. 

He wipes his eyes, which are wet again. “Please,” he whimpers, scooting down the bed clumsily, voice thick and reedy with overwhelm as Louis reverently places his palms on the outside of his quads, squeezing in greedy handfuls. “I won’t last long.” 

“S’fine, coz I’m gonna fuck you when you’re done...gonna make you come around my cock, where you belong,” Louis promises him, eye roving wide and pupil-black over Harry’s dick, big and wet and straight against the thin cotton of his briefs. Harry watches his breath catch, his mouth part around a fractured gasp. “You’re so fucking perfect to me, you know that?” Louis whispers. 

_To me_. Something about that makes Harry’s stomach drop, makes the whole of him shiver in disbelief, in awe. He’s used to seeing strangers call him perfect, a legion of girls on the internet, none of whom _know_ him, only his manufactured image, the one packaged and tailored to be sold to them. But this…this is _Louis_ , his best mate, the person who knows him most completely and honestly, who has seen him homesick on tour and miserable after a bad solo, who has _cleaned up after him_ all those times he puked in the sink. It’s _Louis_ , the boy he’s loved for as long as he could properly love another person, Louis, who’s _perfect_. To him. “I…it makes me feel crazy to hear you say that,” he admits. “Guess I don’t _know_ it yet. Seems too good to be true.” 

Louis bends to press an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of of Harry’s thigh, scruff scouring the tender skin there deliciously. “Well, m’gonna spend the rest of my life showing you, making sure you know,” he vows, kissing higher, eyes fluttering closed as if the way Harry’s skin smells is too much to bear, “if you’ll let me.” 

Harry can’t talk; he's too hard and too moved, so all he can do is nod fiercely, blinking back a fresh wave of tears. _Yours,_ he thinks desperately, carding clumsy fingers through Louis’s hair, stunned by the smile Louis presses into the crease of his thigh as they catch eyes, sharing a mess of unspoken confessions in a single exchange, three years’ worth of longing, right here, right now. “Love you so much,” he finally manages to get out past chattering teeth. “Just...love you.” 

He’s shaking as he props himself up on his elbows to watch Louis hook his thumbs into the waistband of his pants and pull them down over his erection, which thuds against his stomach wetly as it’s freed, heavy and red and positively dripping. Louis hisses, burying his face between Harry’s thighs even before he gets his pants all the way down to his ankles, inhaling from his sweat-damp pubic hair, mouth open and drooling as he mouths up his shaft. It’s _so_ much sensation, the scrape of his stubble and the dig of his thumbs against Harry’s thighs as he anchors himself, the hot slick wet of his mouth as he licks messily up the underside of Harry’s cock, the vibration of his hungry groan as he fits his mouth over the flared crown and _sucks_. Harry whites out, keening and twisting on the bed, bucking his hips because _Louis is unbelievable_ , and it’s the best feeling in the fucking world. 

Time and space blur into nothingness, leaving behind just suction and spit and the wrecked, filthy sounds Louis is making around him. He’s sloppy, drooling down Harry’s length and licking it up, sliding deep and frothing saliva into Harry’s pubes, eyes closed all the while, like he’s blissed out, like this is everything. Harry tries to watch, but it’s too much--he’s gonna come too soon--so he ends up collapsing bonelessly back onto the bed, hands fisting in the sheets to keep himself from shooting off early. At some point, Louis ducks his shoulders under Harry’s thighs, lifting his hips so that he can mouth over his balls, sucking them and rolling them over his tongue, scruff burning against Harry’s _hole_ , and it’s so much, _so fucking much_ that Harry cries out, arching up off the mattress before pushing back toward Louis, needy and lost and broken. 

Louis licks from his balls to his arse, mouthing his way down until he’s swirling his tongue messily over Harry’s rim, so wet that Harry feels like he’s dripping, hole fluttering as Louis pushes _into_ it, spearing him open on the slick of his tongue. “ _Fuck_ , Louis, _fuck_ ,” Harry whines between wordless moaning, and Louis whimpers against him at the sound of his name, like he wants to hear it again. “Louis, Lou, Lou,” Harry pants in response, because he’ll do whatever Louis wants, give him whatever he wants. 

He pushes Harry’s thighs to his chest, bending him in half so that he can get in _deep_ , tongue-fucking him relentlessly, splitting him apart, and Harry’s so fucking close from just this that he’s blurting precum onto his own stomach, calves spasming. 

He lets Louis move him where he wants him, hauling him up the bed so he has room to clamber up between his legs, moving away from his arse with an obscene wet smack before replacing his tongue with fingers, pushing easily up into Harry’s body because Harry’s so fucking worked over there’s no resistance left, nothing but want and _want_. Harry keens as Louis fingers him open, a burning stretch followed by a wonderfully dirty throb. Louis feels around in the heat before pumping in and out, the best and deepest burn, voice snagging out over an awed, “You feel so fucking good, so fucking hot.”

Harry can’t answer; his voice is gone, he feels like he’s sunken into something sweet and syrupy and silencing, and all he wants is for Louis to _take_ him. He’s flat on his back, heels digging into the sheets as Louis swallows his cock again, heat inside him and heat around his length, heat fucking _everywhere_ , excessive and inescapable and deep enough to drown in, which is all Harry _wants_ , all he’s wanted for three fucking years. He's crying freely now, but he doesn’t want Louis to _quit_ , so he manages to grunt out, “Please, don’t stop...don’t you stop.” 

Louis crooks his fingers, pushing up against Harry's walls with a nervy pressure, pulling off his cock in a mess of drool. “Won’t...got you,” he reassures him in his wreck of a voice before fitting his lips over the crown again, tongue lashing. 

Harry isn’t sure how long Louis sucks him and fingers him, but it’s a long fucking time. He endures it way longer than he thought he’d be able to because as soon as he gets close enough to come--cock twitching in Louis’s mouth, heat pooling in his gut--Louis stops, pulling off with a slurp and pushing his fingers in hard and holding still, motionless as Harry bucks and twists and sobs around him, drenched in sweat and wavering on the edge. Then, once his hole is no longer clenching madly around Louis’s fingers, Louis starts up again, gasping before he bends to take Harry’s cock back into his mouth, fingers resuming their slow, dirty drag. 

When he pulls out completely, Harry’s moan cracks into a sob, raw and animal as it’s wrenched from his throat. “ _No_ , please, need you,” he begs, chasing Louis’s fingers as he writhes down the bed. 

“I need you, too,” Louis says in a shaky voice, looming over Harry and blocking out the overhead light, lips so fucking wet and swollen as he bends to kiss him, tasting dark and dirty and spicy from sucking Harry, from eating him out. “You ready for my cock?” 

“ _Fuck_ , fuck, yes, please, fuck me, need you, _please,_ Lou,” Harry babbles, hooking his legs around Louis’s waist and rubbing his spit-slick arse against his dick, gasping at the unbearable burn of it.

“Where’s your lube, baby,” Louis murmurs, thumbing up Harry’s tears. It might be the first time he’s ever called him _baby_ without it being a joke, and Harry whimpers, stomach twisting around it. 

“Doesn’t matter, don’t need it. Just fuck me,” he pleads.

“Yes, you do,” Louis tells him, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Bedside table?” 

Harry nods, humping the air uselessly as Louis stretches across the bed, reaching for Harry’s drawer and rifling clumsily through it. “Can I…do I need to use a condom, or can I have you bare?” he asks. 

“No condom, m’clean, please,” Harry whines, vision bleary through a haze of tears, Louis seeming so soft-edged that he’s fucking _angelic_ as he crawls back on top of Harry, fingers shiny with lube. There’s the delicious _snick snick_ sound of Louis working his hand over his own cock, and Harry’s hole won't stop _pulsing_ in anticipation, he’s so ready, he’s been ready for _years_. “God, _Louis_. Can’t believe this is happening, can’t believe you want me—,” he stops, voice getting stuck as he feels the head of Louis’s cock nudging up against his hole. “ _Fuck_ ,” he breathes, stilling before pulling his own bent knees to his chest to expose himself. “Do it.” 

“Want you so bad, v’always wanted you,” Louis confesses, brushing the hair out of Harry’s eyes as he adjusts his position, rising to his knees, lining up. Then he’s taking his cock in hand so he can push in, bearing down on Harry, bending him in half. 

The breach is breathtaking, the most inescapable, relentless feeling, Louis coring him, hollowing him out. His breathy gasp huffs down over Harry’s face, everything smelling like sweat and musk and tears, and it hurts so fucking _good,_ the stretch, the _fill_. “God,” Harry groans, voice so low and fucked out that it’s nothing but a rumble. “S’perfect.”

“Fuck,” Louis chokes out, pushing in deeper, so deep the tops of his thighs nestle against the backs of Harry’s, lining up like something predesigned to fit. “You feel like heaven.” 

“Fuck me hard...like it hard,” Harry moans, not even wanting time to adjust to the stretch, rocking back and forth to try and get friction on Louis’s cock even though he's not moving. “Just want you.” 

“I know…I _knew_ you’d like it like that, knew that if I ever got to fuck you, I’d give it to you so good I’d ruin you for everyone else...I _know_ you, Harry, know you...so perfect...know you...inside,” be babbles, hair so wet it’s nearly black, dripping sweat onto Harry’s brow as pulls back and fucks roughly back in, their skin slapping. “Love you so much...love you.” 

“There never…never was anyone else, just you. Always yours,” Harry slurs, hooking his arms around Louis’s neck and digging his nails into his back, palming over flexing muscle slippery with perspiration as Louis bends him back and slams into him, rhythm unsteady with desperation. 

Harry lets his head loll, lets Louis suck all over his throat, biting and claiming and marking, fucking him so hard that he can’t feel anything but a nervy, searing pleasure-pain, friction and impact. At some point, Louis gets a hand on his cock, wrapping his fingers around the shaft and pumping him in time with his thrusts. It’s so much fucking sensation, an absolute flood of it, and in _seconds_ , Harry’s shooting off, ribbons of white all over his chest, as high as his collar bones, burning where it lands.

Louis cries out, and Harry can feel his own body milking Louis’s second orgasm out of him, the tight clutching pulse of his arse bringing him over the edge. Louis gasps and chokes, a hoarse, high thing snagged from his throat before he collapses, cock still thick and twitching inside Harry, and Harry never wants him to leave, wants him inside forever. 

They catch their breath, panting in tandem, Harry circling his hips and shuddering every time he creates friction on his spent cock because he doesn’t know when to stop, _how_ to stop, when his first and only love has finally fucked him blind into his own bed after three years of waiting, of yearning. Louis keeps pressing idle kisses to Harry’s chest, licking up any droplets and smears of come he can reach, groaning deep in his throat like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.

Then, his stomach growls a bit. Harry giggles, Louis giggles back, and before Harry even has time to realize what his body is doing, he’s wheezing with laughter, abdominal muscles twitching and spasming. They laugh together, absolutely _shaking_ with it, and eventually Louis pulls out, the empty feeling making Harry arch his back and yelp through his hysterics. “Soooo,” Louis says mock-conversationally, using his discarded white tee-shirt to clean himself up. “That happened.” Then, after a pause, “Didn’t it?” 

Harry feels so giddy, light-headed and tingling everywhere, his whole body alive and trembling and shocked. He tries to catch his breath, laughter still caught in his chest, bubbling up through his throat. “It did. I think. Unless I really am dreaming or died and went to heaven or something.”

“I guess we have _Sophia_ and _Liam_ to thank for this? Don’t really want to give them credit, though,” Louis says lightly, smile so fucking brilliant that it makes Harry dizzy. 

“Erm, _no_ , I’m not thanking them for anything,” Harry pouts. “Sophia asked me all those awful, invasive questions. And, like, I almost cried coz you were so…so unaffected. Or at least I thought you were.” 

“I must be an incredible actor,” Louis murmurs quietly, settling back against Harry nuzzling into his side. “Because it always…like, every time, it hurt so bad to lie about that.” 

“You don’t have to anymore,” Harry reminds him, voice cutting out because he can feel Louis’s _tongue_ , can feel him slowly, methodically licking all the come off Harry’s chest, still hot even as Louis’s mouth is hotter.

“I love you so much, Harry,” he says, low and serious like a prayer. “Feels like it’s been killing me, for years. And now here you are.” 

Harry’s not laughing anymore; his eyes are stinging, his throat is thick. It’s all just so _much_ , but Louis must sense he’s overwhelmed because he’s pulling him into his arms so that Harry’s head is pillowed on his chest, right over his script tattoo, which Harry traces with tremulous, awed fingers. “Here I am,” he tells him. “How did…like. Were you ever gonna _tell me?_ That you loved me?” He has to whisper the last bit, it’s still so precious and unbelievable, something he’s not quite sure he’s ready to say. That Louis _loves him_ , loves him back. He smiles stupidly against Louis’s sternum, even through the haze of tears. 

Louis sighs, kissing the top of Harry’s head and inhaling, tangling his fingers in Harry’s and squeezing so their hands join loosely over his heart. “There were a few times I almost did. Like when you started hanging out with Nick all the time, clubbing, and I was terrified you were gonna fall in love with him. Or when you got shit-faced at our New Year’s party and started crying in my room about how you were so lonely, how you just wanted someone to love you, and I thought…I wanted to say, _I do, more than anything, if you’d just see_ … but I was always too scared of fucking up what we had. Being friends, you know? That’s what always scared me out of it in the end, that if I _told you_ , we couldn’t live together anymore or be friends the way we were. Always seemed better to have part of you if I couldn’t have all of you, yeah?” he explains, shrugging. 

“You’ve had all of me, always,” Harry assures him. “That New Year's party, I was trying to goad you into confessing, assuming there was anything to confess. Like an idiot. But you kept saying, _you’ll meet someone, Harry, you’re young and wonderful, you won’t end up alone_ …and I just kept thinking, there’s no chance, none at all, that he could feel the same. Seems so stupid, now.” 

“Baby,” Louis says gently, lips so soft in Harry’s curls. “I felt like the worst friend that night because, like…when I told you that you’d meet someone? I was secretly hoping you wouldn’t because I wanted you for myself, as much as I wanted you to be happy, I think, because I was young, too. And selfish.” 

Harry shivers, moved by this knowledge. “I want you selfish,” he admits. “And, like…I get it, all of it. I was the same way...so scared of making the band weird, thinking I’d push you away…like, I couldn’t live like that, without you, so I just pretended I _wasn’t_ wanking over you or imagining our wedding every day.” He’s only half-joking, but he hears Louis’s heart pick up under his ear, feels his hand twitch and tighten in his fist. 

“Wedding day, huh?” Louis says gently, swallowing, voice all breath. “ So, I get you forever?” 

Harry tilts up and kisses him hard, tasting sweat and fear and his own come, bitter and faintly sweet on Louis’s tongue. The promise of so many nights ahead of them, so many mornings, years upon years upon years, all making up for lost time. 

“Yes,” he murmurs into the kiss, eyes fluttering open so he can see blue and black and hope, and _hope_. “Forever, lambykins.”


End file.
